


forever might not be too long

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1,263 kilometers between Madrid and London, 498 kilometers between London and home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forever might not be too long

It's never been about doing things, but that's all he's ever known. Talking is easy sometimes, because talking doesn't have to mean anything, and meaning is what counts.

For example: 1,263 kilometers between Madrid and London, 498 kilometers between London and home. And some days Sami doesn't even know where home is anymore. But that's the point of faith. If you were completely sure, then there would be nothing left to believe.

For example: "Why does God let people die?" he'd asked at age ten. Because God wants to bring us home to him, his mother replied. "Why don't we just live in heaven then?" Because distance is nothing and everything in the presence of love. "Why does God love us?" Because he does.

For example: Madrid is cold in January, dry and bitter like aspirin. Mesut used to wear three layers to morning training, his eyes barely visible between a black knit beanie and dark blue snood. Thick sweaters cushioned the touch of his hand when he wanted someone's attention. Everything muffled, like speaking through a mouthful of sand.

And there are things that Sami will never say, even in summer. He trains. He stays. He watches TV with Lena and thinks about tomorrow and next week and all the years ahead. She asks him what he's thinking about, and he tells her beautiful, transparent lies.

 

* * *

 

October, in Cologne, the first person he runs into at the hotel is Per Mertesacker.

"You're early."

"So were you."

Per smiles. "I thought maybe I'd get a moment of peace to myself."

"A man can dream."

"As he should."

They sit in the lobby and wait. Sami fiddles with his phone and pretends that he has important emails to read. Rani wants advice and reassurance. His parents want to know if he arrived safely. Reminders from his agent. A quick one-liner from Lena to say she can't meet him on Sunday after all. If he reads obliquely he can almost pretend that Germany is all there is.

"How've you been?" Per asks eventually.

"Good. You know, the usual."

"New season, same old shit?"

"That's just your team."

It's a cheap shot. Per laughs anyway. "And you get a new Tottenham player every year. I don't know, man. Worth it?"

The pang in his chest has nothing to do with Real Madrid. "Not my place to say."

"Something bothering you?"

"No," Sami lies. "How's London?"

"Nothing new, really. You should ask Poldi. He spends more time with the team. Me, I think I'm getting too old. The kids don't want to hang out with grandpa."

"Just you and Wenger keeping them in line, huh?"

"Pretty much."

Per tells a few anecdotes, and Sami lets the words flow over him. His phone stays dark and silent.

 

* * *

 

Some things, some people, never change. He's not sure if this is a relief or curse. Schweinsteiger sits with Lahm, the rest of the Bayern contingent not far away. Only Thomas remains a free floater, now bothering Reus, now chatting up Per, now attaching himself to Kroos.

It's all very childish of them, he thinks. Sami takes his tray to the end of the table, and Poldi plops down beside him soon after.

"You gonna eat that?"

Sami reflexivly slaps Poldi's hand away from the orange on his tray. "No."

Poldi is unbothered. "You could use the vitamin C. Been real quiet all day. You okay?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Long trip?"

"It's not that bad."

"Yeah? Flight from Heathrow is about 50 minutes but it felt like days. British Airways, man."

"What, they served tea instead of beer?"

Poldi laughs. "I came by myself. It's only an hour, but it's so weird and quiet, you know? No one to talk to, just the airplane sounds and crying babies."

"That's a cliche."

"Doesn't mean it's not true."

"I'm just saying."

"Hey, I know. We all do, you know?" Poldi shrugs, or maybe nods in someone's direction. Sami doesn't turn to look. "But you get older. You get over it. Yeah?"

He pronounces it like an article of faith.

"Yeah," Sami says, "something like that."

 

* * *

 

There's a way in which thought becomes anguish becomes prayer, a natural progression of things, the same way distance diminishes into eternity.

For example: 1,652 kilometers by plane to 90 km/hour on the freeway to numbers in an elevator, fifth floor and tenth. He counts them down from nine, eight, seven, six, five — fourthreetwo and lobby. Someone is loitering by the double glass doors, through which he can see the space where the bus will be in forty, fifty minutes.

"Hey," Mesut says. His jacket is zipped all the way up. If he ducks his head, half his face would disappear beneath the black and white collar. But the smile in his eyes is always legible.

Sami lets himself be pulled into a hug, Mesut's arm looping around his waist: natural.

"Hey yourself."

 

* * *

 

They train from ten to noon. The sky is a shade of grey that he can't imagine Spain will ever understand.

He tracks his teammates, their positions imprinting on his consciousness like raindrops in mirror lakes. It's easy, falling back into this. It's harder to remember that this isn't all there is.

But they have new jokes now, Mesut and Poldi and Per. "You had to be there," Per says more than once, while Poldi's doubled over laughing at something Mesut said or did that referenced that time with that thing and if you weren't there, well. That's the problem of living in only one place at one time.

"Xbox tournament," Thomas announces in the locker room, after. "8pm, or whenever dinner ends. Room 503."

Kroos throws a towel at him. "Ask first!"

"Make sure to thank our gracious host!" Thomas amends to a round of laughter.

Sami shakes his head, smiles to himself because yeah, some things never do change. He pokes around his locker, into which his comb and deoderant seem to have disappeared, and a voice at his elbow asks,

"You going?"

Mesut — somehow got dressed before him. Sami blinks. "What?"

"Xbox?"

"Oh." He turns back to his locker. "Are you going?"

"I don't know," Mesut says. "Maybe for a bit."

"Okay. Sure."

"So...yes?"

Sami gives up on his comb. "Yeah. Sure. 8, right?"

"Yeah." Mesut touches his arm to confirm, reassure, be assured. Semantics. Sami is an athlete and has good muscle control; he doesn't flinch.

Mesut's hand falls away. "See you then."

 

* * *

 

He'd spent half the summer with Lena, because Mesut was busy with — talks. Because of the Bale thing, though mostly Perez's ego, which end up being pretty much the same astronomical figure anyway. But wishing had been, at least for the time being, still free.

"It's crazy," he'd said for some umpteenth time, over Skype. "I'm not an agent, but I know, okay? It's crazy. No way."

"Yeah," was what Mesut always said, "except, you know."

"I know. I know. Your dad's talking to them, right?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"No way some Welsh punk is better than you, better than anyone we've already got. Shit, Mes. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I know. But, you know."

"I know he'll be gone in like a year. Two, at most." The grainy picture of him froze, pixelated. Sami jiggled the mouse. "Mes?"

"I can hear you."

"So."

"Yeah."

"What are you gonna do?"

Mesut shrugged. "Wait, I guess. You know."

He didn't, but. "Yeah. Okay. You going home next week?"

"I'm in Madrid."

"No, I meant. Germany."

"Oh, yeah. Probably. Maybe next week."

"Okay. Let me know?"

"Yeah. I will."

 

* * *

 

He ended up getting a text at some ungodly hour of the morning. Three words: _It's going through._

Funny, how numbers work like that.

 

* * *

 

"Iniesta! To Fabregas…Iniesta…Xavi…Messi gets through _and oh it's Fabregas!_ "

"Stop living in 2010, Müller."

"More like 2006."

"Hey, nobody made you play as Liverpool."

"It's still 2-2."

"Not for long!"

Sami leans back in his armchair, watching the general knot of mayhem unfold in the center of the room. Kroos, for all his protestations, is right in the thick of it. Over in a corner, Lahm and Per are talking shop with Poldi.

Mesut plops down on the seat arm. Sami elbows him. Mesut elbows right back.

"Go play."

"I'd get my ass kicked."

"Toni needs a break."

"He asked for it."

Mesut snickers. "Yeah."

They watch Kroos make a gallant effort at containing the force of nature that is Thomas Müller holding a video game controller. When he finally gives up, Schürrle pounces. Sami raises an eyebrow at the new game.

"Chelsea? Seriously?"

"He's pretty good."

"But seriously?"

Mesut shrugs. "Maybe to prove a point."

Thomas picks Dortmund, to a strangled protest from several quarters. Sami snorts. Mesut pokes him — or tries to; Sami knows this trick. Mesut ends up with his arm mostly pinned and squirming free from an awkward angle.

"Okay, okay— ow!"

Sami lets up the pressure. "Just proving a point."

"Yeah, sure." Mesut doesn't move away. He leans back. His arm drops until their hands are almost touching.

Sami watches the game and the bickering. No one's paying them any attention. Slim fingers curl around his hand, for just a moment. Sami squeezes back, instinct saying: _stop, hold — stay._

They watch the game. Mesut's hand is cold. Sami thinks he could feel his pulse if not for the jangling in his own veins.

He lets go first. Mesut is leaning on his shoulder, and his arm is falling asleep. He doesn't say anything when Mesut unfolds himself from the chair, slouches over to Poldi to say goodnight.

Lahm comes to sit with him after Poldi and Per have left, too. The game is still in full swing. The clock reads quarter past nine.

"Somebody's got to think of the children," Lahm says, in what's probably an ironic tone.

Sami exhales past a breath he's still holding somewhere in his chest. "Guess so."

 

* * *

 

It was some Friday afternoon in Madrid. Right before. Or maybe it was after. Time grew muddled, when everything you thought was certain became negotiable, so many pieces of paper on an agent's desk.

They were supposed to — meet up, for something. Lunch. Or maybe Mesut was returning those DVDs he'd borrowed years ago, things Sami would have willingly sacrificed for him. But Mesut wanted to give them back. So they were meeting up. Over coffee, or food, or something.

He'd said 11:30. He remembers that, the time, because everything was about time. When and how often and how much was left. Though it'd all come down to zero anyway.

Mesut texted at 11:40 to say he was on his way. He rang the doorbell at 12:02. Sami stood in his own living room for three minutes, listening to that buzzing and buzzing and then the knocking.

"Hello? Sami, are you— Is anyone there?"

He breathed. Went to the door. "Hey."

Mesut lowered the arm he'd raised to knock. "Uh. Hi."

"Loose interpretation of time."

"What?"

Sami shrugged, turned back into the house. "Never mind."

"Sorry I'm late. I was packing and my mom called, and you know how she gets."

"Yeah, sure." Sami opened the fridge and tried to remember why he'd done that.

"I brought you your stuff."

The fridge felt like winter. There was a single bottle of water left. Maybe he could get two glasses. He closed the fridge and went to the cabinets.

"—it? Sami?"

"Hmm?"

"I said, I have your stuff."

The cabinet yielded a set of bowls and one stray fork. "It's practically yours."

"I— What are you doing?"

A hand on his elbow, gripping. He jerked away. "What?"

"Are you mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you?"

"Don't— Dammit, don't do that! I asked you a question but you just deflect."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I didn't mean to be late, okay? I'm sorry. But I was trying to get everything together and I just. I don't know."

Sami shrugged. "It's fine."

It was so quiet in this damn house with everyone gone, and there were still the two of them left. Though even that was negotiable, considering. Mesut's brow was creased a tiny bit, not enough to show what he was thinking, just that he was.

"You're fine?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"That's it?"

"Isn't it?"

Mesut looked down. When he looked up again, his expression was smooth. "Okay." He turned and headed for the door.

Sami's feet carried him after Mesut, automatic. "Wait. Wait, just—"

He reached for Mesut's shoulder. Mesut shrugged him off, but it was more like a flinch. "I have to go."

"Stay for lunch. Come on, I'm sorry." He reached for Mesut again. "Look, I said—"

"I'm leaving!"

It stung, where Mesut's arm collided with his. Because he'd been shoved away, this time. They stood in his spotless tiled hallway and stared at each other for lack of better options.

"You can stay," Sami said eventually.

"I really can't."

"Just for a bit."

"I have to go."

" _Because you chose to_." He wasn't aware of raising his voice, but Mesut took a step back. "Dammit, _you chose to_ so this is not on me, okay?"

"I know that! Don't you think I know that?"

"So do something, just fucking _do_ something about it instead of waiting and waiting so you're late and then it's my fault you're leaving because I'm not _patient_ or some other fucking—"

Mesut punched him.

It was so out of character that Sami forgot to punch back. He tasted iron and touched his lip; his hand came away streaked with blood. Mesut sucked in air like he could barely breathe. Everything sounded hollow.

"I'm leaving. That's what I'm doing. Fucking deal with it."

He can't remember if the door slammed on his way out. He remembers sitting down. For hours, maybe. Definitely a while. The blood on his lip dried. It got dark, probably.

The next thing he remembers for sure is Lena coming home and finding him still there.

 

* * *

 

He'd left everything in a canvas tote on the kitchen counter. DVDs, headphones, two t-shirts, and a note.

_Thanks for lending me this stuff. Keep it till I need to borrow it again._  
_Taking the gloves because I've heard about English weather._  
_–Mes_

 

* * *

 

He takes the elevator down instead of up to his room. Autumn is crisp and dark outside. One walkway circles around to a service entrance, empty but for a wisp of smoke and someone leaning against the wall.

"Loew would have your head."

Mesut glances up. "There are laws against that."

Sami paces closer. "Thought you quit."

"It's not a habit."

"It's not social."

"Only because you don't."

He snorts at that. "Oh yeah, it's clearly my fault."

"Always."

One word to speak for a thousand secret smiles. The brick is cold against Sami's shoulder blades when he leans back. Hands in pockets, smoke edging the corner of his vision. It stinks of sweetness.

When he holds out a hand for the cigarette, Mesut gives it to him.

"Thought you quit."

He shrugs. "Social thing."

His lips taste nicotine and dampness, not necessarily in that order of importance. He passes it back.

"You smell like smoke now," Mesut points out.

"Already did, thanks to you."

"And that's my fault?"

"Always."

Mesut laughs, stubs out the cigarette under his heel. "Can I wash up in your room? Per's gonna lecture me. I'm rooming with him."

Sami shrugs away from the wall. "Sure," he says. "I've got a single."

 

* * *

 

The hallways are still and quiet, but peace is not a function of architecture. Sami listens to water running and splashing against ceramic. He sits on the bed and scrolls through emails on his phone, glancing over subject lines, opening exactly none.

The water turns off. The ensuing silence lingers too long.

If the bathroom door weren't already ajar, he wouldn't knock like he does. "Okay in there?"

"Yeah, I'm—" Mesut breaks off with a mumbled curse. "Actually. Can you come in for a sec?"

A beat. He pushes open the door.

Mesut has taken his shirt off. Dark hair curls damp at the fringes, falling into his eyes, evidence of ablution. He's turned his head sideways, looking into the mirror. There's a smudge of bruising on his neck, right below the jawline and — it's a full second before he puts two and two together.

"Here." Sami takes the concealer from Mesut's hands. "Let me."

It's not waterproof, the label tells him. But the shade perfectly matches Mesut's skin. He brushes color over bruising until it disappears.

Something twisted demands that he ask, "Mandy?"

The pause is horrific and satisfying. Then,

"She's in New York."

The words are barely a mumble. Mesut holds perfectly still; Sami barely breathes.

After, Mesut examines himself in the mirror. "You're pretty good at make up."

"Yeah, well." Sami caps the concealer and sets it down. "I have Lena."

 

* * *

 

He'd squirmed away from her the moment she said _make up_. "I am not wearing that."

"Don't be a baby." Lena grabbed his chin, surveying the damage with a critical eye. "You know how hard it is to match skin tone from memory? You're lucky I'm me."

"Look, I appreciate it, but I have practice later. I can't—"

"It's waterproof, dumbass. Now hold _still_."

He obeyed, and she made the blooming bruise on his cheek fade.

"So," she said after — after she'd forcibly seated him on the couch with a cup of tea. "You gonna tell me what happened?"

Same as yesterday, when she'd come home in the dark, he shrugged. "I tripped?"

"On what?"

"Your dumb questions. Look—"

"Uh-uh." She all but sat on him, long legs propped over his thighs. "Talk to me, Sami."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. How about, what happened to make your boyfriend punch you in the face?"

"He's not—"

"Sorry. Your sexually repressed life partner—"

"Fuck you."

Lena rolled her eyes. "That'll be the day."

He put the tea down.

"Hey," she said, voice soft. "It's not your fault, okay? Shit happens. You'll be okay."

"Yeah, well." He picked at the couch cushions. "Nothing happened."

"What do you mean nothing?"

"I mean ever. Nothing ever happened."

A pause. "Oh, baby." She touched his cheek, and it was almost worse than pity. "I'm so sorry. But it's gonna be okay. Really."

"Is it?"

"Sometimes you can talk it out, but if it's just meant to be…"

He turned his face away. "Yeah. I guess."

 

* * *

 

He doesn't like to romanticize, but he has no other language for certain things.

Things like — two lockers side by side, consecutive shirt numbers, a settling sense of ease. Unwinding into German after a day of stumbling through foreign slang. Laughter that made sense.

Like — practice and muddy pitches and that perfectly weighted pass, a white shadow behind him and the Bernabeu's thunderous roar. Clinging arms and a dark head tucked against his shoulder.

Like — video games and movie nights. The dogs running through the yard toward him, affection bred by familiarity. Home-cooked food and dirty dishes in the sink. An open door and shared plane rides and waiting, always waiting.

Like—

 

* * *

 

Mesut pushes him onto the bed, practically crawling over his lap. Kisses him, mouth damp and tasting still of nicotine.

"I miss you," Mesut says.

He feels lightheaded. "Missed you, too."

Hands, warm on his chest. "I'm sorry about the fight." Lips brush over his cheek. "And about that."

"Can't believe you punched me."

"You were asking for it."

"Not for that," he hears himself say.

Mesut's eyes are dark with something unreadable. "I know."

There's a buzzing in his head, a sweet humming across his skin. Mesut hooks two fingers beneath the waistband of his pants.

Sami wakes up in a cold sweat.

The clock reads 4:51.

Cologne, he remembers. It's Friday. The room is empty but for one bed, and the bed empty but for himself.

 

* * *

 

At morning practice, Mesut and Poldi stick together like playing cards on a humid day. Per gives them space. From this, the rest of the team take their cue. Thomas gives them knowing grins, and Kroos just rolls his eyes.

Sami thinks about concealer smudging the inside of Mesut's collar and feels sick to his stomach.

 

* * *

 

He types into a blank email:

_So this is kind of stupid. It's not really a big deal or anything but I wanted to say something. Or felt like I should, because I keep thinking about it and you know how I get when I overthink things._

_I think it's not fair that Lena and I have to pretend just because other people can't get over themselves and their pigheadedness. I also think that if we really knew God, He would rather I be truthfully alone than pretend like this. But then I wonder why any just, merciful, loving God would make me want things I can't have._

_I'm sorry for losing my temper before you left. I didn't mean it, not in that way. The whole world knows the club fucked up by letting you go. And I fucked up too._

_I guess I just want to say why I might have been acting weird lately. I'm not trying to avoid you or anything. You seem happy in London and that's good, I'm glad you like it there. But I miss you because_

_And I don't even know what it means or anything, but_

_I guess I_

He clicks the trash icon; it — everything — nothing — disappears.

 

* * *

 

It's absurdly easy to pretend everything's fine. Because everything is fine. Everything is better than fine, so long as he can have this even if he can't have more.

They train and laugh and play. Germany win both matches, Ireland and Sweden, and qualification is beginning and end. They clear out of the hotel first thing in the morning, each to his separate home, but he's the only one boarding flight A723 for Madrid.

They say goodbye, they say good luck, and see you soon.

And talking is simple, but you say so many things and only a few have the weight of haunting in the end. Things like: _hey_ and _yeah_ and _always_. And love — is only for God to decide, perhaps. It's too heavy a word for human mouths.

Because it's 1,652 kilometers between Madrid and Cologne, three words between faith and loss, and so much more between happiness and home.


End file.
